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Sandy Lyne


The Windy Gate


Separation: November

A salty snow is falling,
softly, softly,
as in my childhood,
but where?—

It’s me standing on a corner
waiting for the bus.
A windy gate.

A month before I knew that I
would leave, my daughter,
fingering the subject
of attachments
said to me, “Daddy,
I love you so much,
a lot, not too much.
You know what I mean?”

Slipping past the other way,
the dead
arrive every hour, every second.
So the ancient ones,
increasing themselves,
passed over,
pass over....

A blue truck flies by.
in back— half-buried in the wind—
a dog steadies himself
on a pile of rubber tires.
He snarls at the traffic ribbons,
a salmon in his teeth
just dragged from the sea.


© The Estate of Sandford Lyne



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